


French Roast

by misskatieleigh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Preseries, Stanford Era, flirting baristas, no actual relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-31
Updated: 2007-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:31:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misskatieleigh/pseuds/misskatieleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*spoilers for season 8*  --- this was written back in 2007. The use of the name Amelia is coincidental, but it amused me a little to leave it that way, even though it matches up to a character in the actual show now.</p></blockquote>





	French Roast

Sam didn’t even like coffee growing up.

The scent of it was wrapped in too many memories of his father and Dean - strung out on too much adrenaline or working to stay awake through the pulse of red that threatened the existence of everything in Sam’s world. Coffee meant Dean was still up waiting; eyes steady out the window, watching for headlights that refused to break the dark. Coffee meant Dad was up, car packed and another mile waiting for them to pass over it, another town waiting to be forgotten.

So maybe Sam had some issues with coffee but had he earned them – paid in blood and sleep and the shattered pieces of his heart every time they weren’t fast enough, strong enough, smart enough to make a difference.

That all changed in college, a thousand miles away from the steam billowing up from Dean’s styrofoam heaven and Dad’s mouth, sharper than the knife in his belt.

*******

At Stanford, coffee was different; the sprawl of youth, no worries beyond the next paper and the next class, steamed milk and espresso with cinnamon brighter and more bitter than the black pool burning away in the bottom of the coffee pot in a million diners spread out across the stretch of Sam’s America. The rich scent laden with cream and sugar and the slick swirl of chocolate meant eyes that matched, darting up at him from behind thick black lashes – a slash of midnight against milk white cheeks and lips bitten pink when his fingers brushed hers across the span of a paper coffee cup, cardboard band to spare the burn.

Sam could let his heart unclench by degrees, let the tension ease out of his shoulders in minute increments, thoughts mesmerized by the glint of teeth as her mouth tilted into a sideways smile.

Her nametag said Amelia, though someone had whispered that they made up names for the tags for fun – a truth judging by the Amazon with a pink buzz cut that manned the cash register, Mercedes swirled out in glitter paint on the ebony black square pinned to her chest. Next to her, Amelia faded into the shadows, hidden behind the high counter by bottles of syrup and flavor; reduced to the pale hand passing their seventeen word masterpiece across faux marble, black sharpie marching a code of letters around the bottom of their cup.

Sam wasn’t interested in the one shouting for attention, his cheeks flaring electric pink when she had first dropped her gaze down his frame. His eyes caught onto slender fingertips, impossibly cold against the scalding hot of his cup – following down to glimpse over the scrawl of her name and back up into downcast eyes. She seemed startled that he kept her fingers in place, not letting go until she darted her eyes up to meet his.

“Thanks, Amelia.”

The next time he went through the line, she looked up faster; heat flashing across her face when she mumbled her way through _you’re welcome_. Sam grinned, squeezed his fingertips against hers and walked away, letting the liquid slide of his coffee settle heat into his bones, grounding him in Palo Alto and letting the rest of America settle back to dust.

*******

In another lifetime, Dean will tease Sam about his ‘girly’ coffee, looking down his nose as Sam sifts sugar and cinnamon and cream into his cup. Sam will just smile, remembering a girl whose real name he never knew. A girl that didn’t go up in flames - whose eyes didn’t fall empty while blood ran down her face. A girl whose pulse is still beating, soft rhythm of life under her skin.

He will remember catching her face, red and wind burnt between his palms, and licking the taste of French Roast from her mouth, a hint of bitter against the sweet of her smile. He’ll remember going to his knees in the middle of the stairwell to her building, the rough wool of her skirt pulling at his hair; leather at her ankles and soft white thighs smooth under his palms and against his cheeks – her taste sharp and bright under his tongue. He’ll remember a goodbye that wasn’t bitter, hips rising and falling in stutter rhythm, her throat bared to his teeth, possession and surrender in the mark on her neck and a ticket to her new life sitting on the night stand next to her bed.

A lifetime and a thousand miles away, Sam will remember how it felt to have no regret, the startling shock of happiness buzzing under his skin and the blonde haired girl that caught the wake of his smile.

**Author's Note:**

> *spoilers for season 8* --- this was written back in 2007. The use of the name Amelia is coincidental, but it amused me a little to leave it that way, even though it matches up to a character in the actual show now.


End file.
